


Unchained Memory

by AccioButtStuff



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ghost Sex, M/M, pottery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 03:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14464056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccioButtStuff/pseuds/AccioButtStuff
Summary: Gregory Goyle is probably the only person in the world who ever mourned the passing of Vincent Crabbe.The ghost of his late friend literally haunts him.Good thing he has an abundance of loose shirts.And a pottery wheel.





	Unchained Memory

A gorilla knuckle reached into Gregory Goyle’ kitchen cabinet and pulled out a little mug, and then reappeared a moment later to tip a bottle of Blishen’s fire whiskey with a measured precision that didn’t need to be as careful as the man affected. He brought the mug up to his lips and took a small, gentle sip. The brew danced through his throat and into his belly, where it settled into a comfortable warm glow.

Humming a dumb and tune-less ditty to himself, he crossed the room of his modest little cottage to his work bench, which supported a little shelf of small, simple little clay pots and squashy vases he’d been sculpting and painting. An honest, crafty little hobby for a lonely old man. Goyle’s work looked like… a collection of ceramics fired by grade-school Muggle children. It was kind of embarrassing to look at. An actual child’s drawings were, in fact, arranged on the wall above the bench - drawings of a family. A blonde Draco, regal Astoria, and tiny little Scorpius Malfoy all featured on the tacked-up parchment, drawn with serious and stern expressions; and amongst them all, a much bigger, grinning figure with small head and big chest and arms and sticky-out ears: Uncle Goyle. They were from Draco’s son, who passed drawings on to his Dad to give to his old Slytherin classmate every other week when he’d pop in for a polite visit, where he'd take up a seat and sit stiffly across Goyle's armchair to tick off a list of gentle, near-scripted conversation topics ranging from Goyle’s garden (surprisingly well-tended to and lush), the weather (rainy, isn’t it?), and finally, that ludicrous display from Puddlemore United last night. Malfoy these days was an odd and reserved contradiction of his spiteful and snotty childhood self; he was an involved father and husband, and he faithfully visited Goyle in his modest little bachelor wizard cottage every fortnight. Goyle was very much aware of the boredom that registered in the blonde wizard’s eyes when they traded inane conversation, but without having the words for it, he understood why his former schoolmate felt compelled to conduct these visits.

His workbench to his back, Goyle now sat himself comfortably down behind his pottery wheel, and let out a comfortable little sigh. He pulled his wand from his well-worn at-home robes to carefully and deliberately twirl a shape in the air, sounding out an incantation slowly and clearly. The pedal of the pottery wheel started to pump itself, and the corner of his mouth affected a smirk, pleased with himself.

Goyle rolled up his sleeves, and loosened the top of his shirt a little. He bent down behind him with a grunt and pulled a cold lump of river clay from it’s packaging beneath the work bench, and slapped it onto the spinning wheel. He poked his banana fingers into his robes again and pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he balanced on his broad nose and blinked through, screwing his eyes up to re-focus. He clicked his fingers, and when the candles in the the little cottage didn’t light themselves the first time he peered up and over his spectacles, mouth open and pursed, looking for a moment like a dignified old wizard instead of, well, Goyle. Looking straight up at the candelabra nearest to him, he sounded out another clear and careful incantation - and clicked his chunky fingers again. The candles obediently lit themselves, and Goyle squared up his shoulders.

A song started playing by itself on the wireless radio from his kitchen table, a familiar one Goyle heard all the time but didn’t know the name of. His tuneless humming faded and resurfaced, now harmonised somewhat with the song.

With a wet squelch, Goyle dipped one big, fat finger right into the middle of the clay lump on the wheel, watching the rest of the ball become a spinning donut around his hand. The song on the radio continued to ascend in a mournful warble as the candles flickered in unison, and turned blue. A pumpkin grin split over Goyle’s face.

Humming along to the song with a little more confidence, his thumbs started working around the base of the clay, and slowly worked their way up an emerging, elongating shaft. There were words to the song, and Goyle had heard it dozens, if not hundreds of times, but his lips could never keep up with the words, so instead he hummed, mostly in tune. Crabbe had actually been the one with the singing voice - surprisingly soft and reedy, despite his large and hulking frame. Goyle’s voice was a low, out-of-tune baritone that he couldn’t raise even if he tried. He’d had the same voice since he was eleven: when he was a boy he used to continuously repeat things girls said in his own deep voice, and it was good for laughs for the first few years of Hogwarts. And then he and his friend spent the better part of a year actually _being_ girls while Malfoy did who knows what in that fateful room. That had been a confusing and aching year. Goyle usually tried to lead his heavy thoughts away when they wandered towards that room.

He wasn’t always able to articulate his thoughts, but it wasn’t true that Goyle didn’t have any. They just strolled about in his head much more absent-mindedly than most - but they arrived at their destination in the end. And one of the conclusions he’d made was that he might be the only one who thought about how it was actually incredibly sick that a seventeen-year-old boy had died in a fire at a school, and how the wizarding world, as one, had seemed to brush over it. Goyle had some inkling that Malfoy’s thoughts might have wandered around the same idea, but if they did, he never spoke about them to Goyle - it almost seemed like he thought is bi-monthly visits were a sort of tame punishment to him, and penance to his old crony. Goyle understood plainly that Malfoy by no means thought him any less stupid and ugly as an adult. He just didn’t say it anymore. What his behaviour intimated instead was subtly more insulting: pity.

Goyle sighed. It was okay. He wasn’t really hurting anyone, and this clearly made Malfoy feel better about himself. And he was raising a boy very removed from the blonde little shithead who took cheap shots at anyone who different. The slow-thinking wizard had noticed, over the years, that he and Crabbe were also, very different.

The candles flickered again as a faint limburger smell drifted into Goyle’s cottage and tugged at his nostrils.

He was here.

The song on the radio crackled a bit and came back, in what might have been a slightly reedier voice. The hair at the back of Goyle’s neck stood up as a familiar icy wash started at his shoulders and crept down the length of his arms. Individual tendrils of the chilly wave snaked down to his hands and wove themselves between Goyle’s fingers, crumpling the long vase he’d carefully been rubbing out. He sighed with feigned annoyance, but his grinning face ruined the effect. 

Something invisible raked the clay clumped over Goyle’s fingers, and the trails seemed to slither and splatter of their own accord over his upper arms. His shirt unbuttoned by itself, and phantom clay marks left themselves behind around each button - and then stopped short. Goyle's shoulders tensed and he looked up and around the room. The candles flickered in unison - almost shyly.

"That's alright mate, I'm here. Go on." Goyle's gruff voice came out, softly.

A moment later the icy wash returned to snake down through his shirt and over his chest, swimming languidly through the thick, curly forest of his chest hair. Goyle squared his broad, meaty shoulders to push his chest out against the touch, and felt his nipples harden.

The song swelled through the cottage, the reedy voice building up into a confident tenor vibrato, holding a particular note in the song with a trembly ache and longing.

Goyle’s caterpillar eyebrow arched up on his brow as he felt the familiar icy touch slip out the front of his shirt and seem to vanish momentarily, only to reappear again at the front of his trousers. With a sharp intake of breath, he felt invisible fingers circle and tease his at his growing groin. He lifted a hand from his pottery wheel and reached for the little cup on the workbench, and tipped the rest of the firewhiskey down his throat; this time the flames plummeted right to the pit of his stomach and below, seeming to swell and radiate right down to his bladder, stopping his ambushed member from shrinking away from the frosty touch that teased his shaft. Emboldened, Goyle’s own hands mirrored what was happening below the pottery wheel, and together, both his and the invisible hands massaged, teased and thumbed a little packed lump into an erect column.

A red blush had been spreading through Goyle’s whole body, and his scalp glowed red under his spikey salt-and-pepper hair. A moan tried to escape his throat but only got halfway and he choked, crushing his structure between his big hands again, and then yelped when the hands below mimicked his actions. Panting, he cupped the mess of clay in his hands an re-shaped it into a ball, and then slowly and purposefully pushed a finger through the top again, and gasped as what felt like an icy boner lazily pushed and then suddenly penetrated Goyle’s butthole, right through his trousers. He felt his buttocks first clench and then give a little, and he leaned forward in his seat, hands on either side of the pottery wheel now. The corporeal ghost member stayed where it was for a moment, and then started a gentle rocking - retracting somewhat, and then quickly slamming back a little harder, once, twice, three times, again, and then Goyle got too excited to keep count. He suddenly became aware of a bodily weight pressed up behind him as well, and for a moment it didn’t feel icy and ghost-like, but sweaty and warm and real; it wrapped around him and again the smell of limburger faded in and out of existence for a second. Goyle tried to lean back into it but again just felt a cold spot behind him, and instead inclined further forward, putting his weight on his forearms and finally standing up for his phantom visitor to get deeper access. The in-and-out intensified, and the song on the radio seemed to suddenly match their rhythm. Goyle’s breath was now coming out in short rasps, the heat form the fire whiskey making his breath escape in vapour puffs through the suddenly cold room.

Goyle arched and bucked his back as he felt a particularly deep push, trying to match the rhythm. He gritted his teeth as the invisible pounding pushed harder from the back and into his workbench. Suddenly he felt it get really cold in the depths of his rectum, and felt his own member trying to take him to the edge too - and then some spectral helping hands reappeared and worked his shaft the same way he’d been fumbling with his clay pot, two invisible thumbs meaningfully pushing the sides from the base and working their way up. Goyle didn’t last long after this and surged forward, smashing his hands into the mess of clay, wheel still spinning, his own load soaking into the front of his trousers. Panting, he looked down and growled an unmagical curse - the front of his trousers were singing and smoking lightly, an effect of the fire whiskey. He sighed - it was too late to save these, anyway. Despite this, the corners of his mouth turned up into a satisfied grin.

"That's alright, mate," he whispered. 

He look down at the mess of clay on his pottery wheel.

He’d really have better clay pots on his display shelf if this didn’t happen every single time.

 


End file.
